Somnum
by Lael Mae
Summary: "America pretends to be too scared to sleep in his own bed when England comes over to visit and uses that fear as an excuse to cuddle him." Kink meme de-anon.


De-anoning from the Hetalia Kink Meme.

Prompt: America pretends to be too scared to sleep in his own bed when England comes over to visit and uses that fear as an excuse to cuddle him. England is fooled at first, though he's very aware of the fact that he's snuggled into America's bare chest. Then America, emboldened by the lack of negative reaction to the cuddling, begins to run his fingers through his hair and nuzzle and kiss him. I don't mind if there's some exploratory touching, but no full-out smut, please.

* * *

><p>"England, I'm scared."<p>

Shuffle.

"England."

Shuffle.

"Englaaaaaand."

The small heap under the downy comforter grunts and tosses his body to eye the intruder in the spare room. The figure is tall, quaking, and clinging a pillow to his chest (in hopes that this extra tactic would work). Half-asleep, England just eyes America, either contemplating or trying to come to his senses from a sudden wake. With a huff, his face falls flat into the pillow, letting out a disgruntled groan.

"Oi, git. What is it you need?" By his tone of voice, it is clear he didn't take too kindly at being aroused.

The figure shuffles his body and feet again, retaining a frightened posture and bringing the plush pillow flush against his bare chest. He feels a slight sweat envelop him, giving him a cold chill, and wanting to just jump in the damn (assumed warm) bed already. If he did, England would probably sputter and kick him out, and well, that isn't something he wants. With the house slippers England bought him as a present, America inches closer by dragging his feet (maybe the noise will wake him more so he can get a better response).

"England." There is a short pause followed by a grunt. In the dark, the man smiles to his self. "I can't sleep."

England folds his arms underneath the cold underside of his pillows, snuggling closer. "So? What do you want me to do about it?"

America is caught between a smile when watching England snuggle into the softness and a frown when he asks him what to do about it. He thinks it would be rather obvious since they would sleep together when he was younger. But even now it's hard to suggest it, since they have matured and grown and don't have the established platonic title like before.

Before letting his mind wander on that issue, America forces a low whine and stuttering. "E-E-E-England. Y-You knoooow. L-Like . . . I, I _swear_ I heard that ghost you were talking about earlier in the hall. And – and, I think it came into my room, b-because suddenly I got really cold and–" America halts his tangent when England lifts his self with his arms and turns his head to the other, an indistinguishable look on his face. "And-and, yeah! It was so scary! The floor kept creaking, and there was some kind of strange pounding from _underneath_ it!"

England flops down onto the mattress against, murmuring softly. "I didn't hear any of that. Your imagination is going off again."

"N-No it isn't! Anyway, can I just sleep with you?" America's words rushes out, fingers clenching tightly into the pillow.

"Why the bloody hell do you want that? You're a man. You've grown up." A scoff.

"Of course I am! B-but! Please? It like, really scared me. I can't get back to sleep. Please, please, please?" America adds a little hop to his request, causing the floorboards to creak.

A large sigh leaves the Englishman. "Pray tell, how do you think that will help?" England's head is too nestled and the room too dark to notice America's cheeks flush and eyes flutter shyly.

". . . Because. You let me sleep with you when I was younger when I got scared," he mumbles into the pillow. "And I need to sleep–" a pause, "–since I'm a hero," an afterthought.

There's a long pause. America grows more anxious, hands tightening and releasing the grip several times. He's sure England hasn't noticed his nervous tics because he rolls over, sighs, and makes space on the bed for the other.

"Fine. I don't want to hear another peep from you."

America squeals delightedly and jumps onto the mattress, swiftly nestling his self on his side and adjusting the pillow he brought. Even still, England can't see his wide, absolutely delighted smile – his back is to him.

"Hey. Hey, England." The American pokes none-too-softly at the other's back. There is still one thing he forgot.

The smaller male flips his self over to glare. "I told you to be quiet–!" Whatever else that was to be said is cut off by America crushing England against him, squeezing tightly and a rattling laugh.

"Okay, okay. Now I can sleep." The sandy-blonde swallows his nervous laughing and instead sets a goofy smile.

". . . hmrf." The Englishman forcibly closes his eyes, not wanting to bother again. "Good. Just get to sleep."

"Mhm." America agrees and nestles against the other's head, taking in small, soft breaths.

But his heart begins to fill up. The other is finally nestled in his arms, against him.

Can he feel his hair? Touch his skin? But surely right now the warmth is enough. The heartbeat that America is straining to hear is there. His breathing is so easily heard, but it seems to be hesitant (maybe because he's forcefully holding England against him). But still, America hopes England doesn't mind.

Maybe just staying like this for a while will induce something. And so America waits, continually practicing steady breathing, keeping his arms wrapped comfortably around the other, and still, still hoping that England will react.

He doesn't. He is still stiff and rigid as a board, restrained breaths, a quake when America makes the slightest movement.

But this is justifiable. England and he would do this when they were younger. England would let America sleep with him and snuggle and both would listen to each other's breathing as a melody to fall asleep. America is scared because this has changed between them.

Feeling as if this wasn't being receipted positively, America shifts, breathes, and gently threads a hand through England's blonde locks.

England's eyes shoot open, breath hitches and stills being very, very baffled at America's actions. He grits his teeth, fists ball at the other's bare chest – confused, confused, confused. His heart beat picks up.

The blonde hair feels soft, albeit damaged from constant winds, rain, and general lack of care. Each strand is mindlessly handled, thoroughly rubbed between fingers, and let go to fall back into place. The motion is repeated with intent, striving to map out each string of hair, categorize it to thin, brittle, strong, or smooth, and places it before moving on.

America lets out a held-in breath against England's forehead, blowing at the fringed bangs that lay there. Slowly, surely, carefully, with him in mind, the larger man adjusts to pull the other closer.

"A-America . . . What are you . . ?" England quivers out, recoiling against the other, body heat picking up at the anticipating anxiety and the strange, strange actions.

"I told you . . . I wanted to sleep like we would before. We would cuddle–" America chokes at his admittance, "a-and then fall asleep. It . . . calms me, so." He squeezes England, one hand still at the base of his neck.

England hesitantly and slowly nods. America bites his cheek, feeling bad that he didn't tell the whole truth.

'No. I'm lying. I'm such a liar. I'm not scared. It's not because we used to do this before. This is all an excuse. I am selfishly using this as an excuse to feel you, to smell you, to hear you. All my stupid, selfish desires.'

A faltering breath leaves America, as if defeated.

'I want this. I want this all to be mine – mine to touch, spoil, and keep.'

A hand smooths down England's backside – a shudder from the owner, a squeeze from the actor. The sandy-blonde rests his head between the junction of the other's neck and shoulder, gently motioning a nuzzle, delighting in the smell (old, antique, almost like dust and wood polish, and faint, faint use of cologne – perhaps England was rummaging through his attic again, he usually smelled of the sea), feeling the warm pulsing in his neck (he was very much alive, and here, here, here for America to appreciate and breath in and hear and feel), and through his own breath, he swears he could taste him (salt, cologne, embroidery threads). Taking another breath, America subtly, very subtly, pecks the neck – the other man stirs, frowns, but America continues his soft stroking upon England's back.

England's eyes flutter in a subdued tone. (Due to pleasure? Comfort?) He exhales gently against America's exposed neck – shudders shock through his body and an abrupt twitch startles the smaller man. America apologizes with a tenderer kiss on his neck, breathing hotly there before trailing his head down England's collarbone, purposely letting his hair brush the Briton's cheeks and lips ghost past. England sighs contently and wets his lips, his arm gradually reaching across, underneath the blankets, to lightly grip America's waist.

Cerulean eyes widen – America tilts his head up from England's collarbone, to view his expression (if any). England voluntarily touched him! But England's eyes remain shut (eyelashes swept gently upon his upper cheekbones – so fragile-looking, so soft-looking). A kind smile graces America's lips and he raises his head to plant a kiss to the other side of England's neck.

England shivers visibly – hand clenching America's waist, mouth parted just slightly. When America pulls back to look at England again, he is awe-struck. His eyelids are gently closed, his lips look moist (the dim light from the night illuminating in the most subtle and enchanting way), his cheeks are a pinch rosy, and the way he is shyly curled against America (a limp arm clinging and his body half-turned) is near enough for America to melt, weep, sweep England off his feet or all at once.

"England."

The said man leisurely opens his eyes – forest-green mellow and swirling in a melting pot of cerulean-blue. The blonde feels a sturdy hand on his cheek – quickly denoting it as America's – and looks to in question without saying a word.

"I want to kiss you," America whispers strongly, cheeks brushed red.

Once, twice – England blinks. His mouth is still agape as before, but now looking more willing to comply to America's desire – well, as America sees fit. There is a hint of the smallest, most accepting smile America has ever witnessed from England, then a nod. At that moment, the sandy-blonde wants nothing other than to fall into the older man's chest and sob and breathe and whisper to him about everything. But like usual, he holds his self back, swallows down his revelations, closes his eyes, and leans over England to press a well-meaning kiss to his lips.

Faintly, America feels England reciprocate and his hold tighten on his waist. The gesture causes him to smile against the other's lips, but quickly kisses England again in case he was to shout at him for smiling or 'mocking.' He feels England's chest deflate as he sighs against his lips.

Gently, so gently, America tenderly rubs England's side with his thumb. He hears a surprised hitch in the man's throat, but the Briton continues to press his lips against the other set and clings to his bare chest. Again, America can't help but smile against him, against England, precious, special England.

The warmth against his lips quickly disappear to his dismay. America opens his eyes to see England looking at him, green eyes illuminated by the night's light, eerily and dreamily. A blush paints the sandy-blonde's cheekbones again, mouth open to complain about England pulling away too soon. But it seems the Englishman knew this; his eyes brighten and an amused smile tugs on his lips.

"I feel you smiling, Alfred."

"Y-You mean 'felt,'" America sputters, head titled away with embarrassment.

"No." England reaches America's jawline to pull up, to look at him, to have his attention and not shy away again (which are too many times, but still being guilty of it himself). Cerulean eyes shimmer at him (sparkling like clear water on a sunny day) and England briefly stops. His smile falters – edging towards an emotional cry like usual shifting moods – and yet he pulls his mouth muscles to keep it intact. "No . . . I _feel you_ smiling, Alfred." It's said in such a soft, romantical voice that England falters a bit (as if he has has half a mind to bury his head under the covers), but settles for a suited blush.

America stares mesmerized, heart bouncing too much for him to bother taming at this moment. Gradually, he recovers – a curious open mouth to a wide grin bearing teeth. "E – Arthur." America languidly removes England's hand from his jaw and links their palms together. "Arthur." A squeeze for their hands. "Arthur." He breathes against the smaller man's forehead, kissing there before nestling his head down to peck his nose and hover above his lips.

One breath.

Two breaths.

Then, once again, their lips and breaths melt together in the thick sweetness of mutual warmth and affection.


End file.
